


Back to the Sea

by Kangoo



Series: Miscellaneous Warcraft Stuff [1]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Body Dysphoria, Every other characters is irrelevant, Gen, Kael'thas-centric, Purple Prose, Selkies, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:24:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: He only truly regrets never seeing the sea again.





	Back to the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve just watched Song of the Sea and I'm Kael'thas trash so here’s the selkie AU literally no one asked for
> 
> Unbeta'd, as usual

There is no water in Outland, no howling wind and crashing waves to call him away. The song of the moons is twisted, as dark and broken as the land itself, and he knows that if he were to follow it, he would reach misery or be lost forever to the fel-ridden deadland.

  


The need for the ocean is like an itch he cannot scratch, always. Like he is bigger than his skin, like the air is too dry and the wind too warm and he cannot breathe.

  


.

  


There are few the like of him on Azeroth, a handful scattered like ashes over the continents, so few they know each other names across enemy lands and forgotten ones.

 

 

Unlike dragons, who hold their loyalty only to their own, they embrace their adopted nations wholly, be they trapped there or not. 

  


In a way they are always trapped on lands, always away from home.

  


.

  


The worst, maybe, is that he is alone. There is no sea, no moon and no one else to feel a feeble sense of kinship with. He is alone and it is a blessing for his kind and a curse for himself, to not share this pain.

  


Loneliness is to be alone in the red-blue night, clawing at his skin until it bleeds and comes off, until he is free by death or change.

  


(Better him than anyone else, he thinks, and cries out in the silent night, terrified beyond belief.)

  


.

  


It is Illidan who finds him, bleeding in the dust and crying like a lost child. His master stands over him, silent, watching him sobbing, curled on the ground, the perfect image of pathetic failure.

  


Then he kneels next to Kael’thas and cradles him in his arms with a gentleness that goes against everything he is — seems to be — wants to be.

  


“I need my generals as sane as can be,” He says and dumps Kael’thas on his bed, and pretends not to hear him babble about ocean and moon and terrible, tearing pain.

  


He stays until Kael’thas falls asleep, and then a little more.

  


(They do not talk about it, and Kael’thas does everything in his power never to be seen in such a state again.)

  


.

  


It doesn’t get easy, it probably never will, but it gets… less hard. Time numbs all pain, until he can almost forget about it. The abyss in his chest loses its cutting edge, if none of its harrowing darkness, and the scars of his own making slowly close and disappear. The sound of crashing waves slowly recedes from his dreams until he can barely hear it and, with more time, starts to forget it. It is a bittersweet feeling, to realize he is losing such a part of himself, like he lost the memory of his father’s smile and of his mother’s voice after their death.

  


His pelt lays forgotten, neatly folded in a chest where it won’t collect dust. He doesn’t take it out as often as he used to, can’t remember the last time he brushed it. It is for the best.

  


.

 

A night elf comes to his master, covered in scars and a pelt tied around her hips. She is own of Maiev’s, dragged through the Portal by loyalty and hate, and he can read homesickness in her dull-silver eyes, in the tense lines of her body, in the way the freshest scars are nail-sized.

  


Illidan meets her unarmed, in over-confidence rather than in any attempt to put her at ease. For this one, he requests Kael’thas to come. He stands next to his master, his own coat thrown over his shoulder. It faintly smells like dust and smoke rather than salt, but it feels warm and familiar still. For his own sake, he pretends it doesn’t make him wants to burn the temple to the ground.

  


The night elf has heard of the army Illidan is building, of the demon-like elf warriors he created. She offers everything to him in the hope she can be one, too, kneels to his feet and begs for a chance at vengeance.

  


Still, when he accepts — of course he does — it is to Kael’thas that she hands her pelt. It is tattered and scarred like its owner, darkened by blood and ashes that blend with its natural color, but she holds it like it is pure gold. He accepts it with the same care and bows his head to her.

  


_Thank you for accepting a sacrifice you cannot understand_ , her dead eyes say.

  


They both know he won’t be able to take care of it the way he should. They both know she will not need him to.

  


.

  


He meets her again, the selkie warrior, in the dark corridors of  the temple. Her eyes are alive with fel fire, hidden under blood-matted strands of dirty, knotted hair. He supposes grooming isn’t of great importance to a demon hunter, but his heart still clenches at seeing his kin in such a state.

  


She looks at him — _really_ looks, not like the other hunters who glances at him and discards him in the same breath, unconcerned about anything that isn’t _prey_ or _master._  She asks, voice broken and pained and whisper-soft still, if he can hear the sea sing.

  


He cannot. It is _there,_  the same place it used to be when he could still hear it, but it is outside his reach now, has been for months.

  


She smiles a familiar, brittle smile, like she knows his answer already, and hugs herself a little tighter. Everything burns, in Outland, but they are always cold.

  


.

  


He starts brushing his pelt again, every night, and hers too. It feels like brushing the song with his fingertips, like ice and lightning in his veins.

  


It hurts, but hurting is good. Pain reminds him he is still alive. Lately, he has not been feeling much of anything else.

  


.

  


Kil’jaeden doesn’t sound like the sea as much as he sounds like desire and wishes and everything Kael’thas has ever wanted.

  


He still accepts the deal.

  


.

  


He told himself, before, that when all is said and done he would go back to Azeroth and gives the night elf’s pelt back to the sea. She will not need it where she is going, and it has no place in a hell such as this one.

  


He knew it was a lie back then and he is sure of it now, as he lays dying broken and bloody and corrupted in a land far from home. It felt good to pretend to believe in it, though.

  


.

  


He only truly regret never seeing the sea again.

  


.

  
  
There is no one to take his coat back to the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> I know in canon demon hunters come after Kael’thas leaves but if blizzard can retcon things so can I


End file.
